And only history remains
by moriido
Summary: History is a lovechild born to facts and fiction. Who exactly was Idolfried Ehrenberg to Hernan Cortés? If it were ever true that he existed alongside our Conquistador... Or, did he?
1. Destiny selects the victims

**Disclaimer:** All the characters belong to Revo (Sound Horizon), save for Cortés whose character I have collected from history and a friend's roleplay interpretation.

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When they were together, he rarely heard the other make a sound of difference. His body always had been responsive and honest, but only dead breaths escaped his lips. He understood that pillow talk was no agreed privilege, leaving it at that and whatnot until curiosity secured its place in the farrago of his poor record.

One night, he languidly made a question, expecting no answer in return. Being a navigator, the other man might have had interesting objects to collect, other than sachets and pomanders of many kinds. Those gave his busy cabin a calming impression, quite contrasting with the mendacious guise he wore everyday. He awaited shrug and sneer, like always.

To his surprise, the other spoke. The beginning of his story made a genuine painting with thousand patches of colour, if not a fairytale far from their daily migraine in blood and sweats. He felt like a child, enchanted and immersed. Odour, in the other's say, was one kind of voluptuous ink imprinted onto remembrance. He traversed many lands, and the best to buy would be those collective tokens of momentary pleasure. For his beloved ones who had waited in trust, for his cosy dwelling that had fled from wealth and schemes.

However, at mercy of misfortune, stench of blood arrived.

_And they killed her_

Now he came to notice, the shade in those eyes resembles reflection of crystal clear sky onto vast sea, seeming lushly cold and spellbound until the beholder leads himself straight to darkness and knows its charms. He gripped his cross, mumbling sworn beliefs against this newfound devil. Words continued nonchalantly, darkened with discord and blasphemy.

_Good God, protect your child_

The man so thought it was the voice of salvation from within, not from the embodiment of heresy before him. He wants it to be, thus his eyes shut tight. Unfortunately, in place of sight forsaken, other senses stroke a vivid blow against his shield of ignorance. Reek of lust, ungrateful warmth, delusional aroma. Choked with loss, he groaned and awoke, still hung limp at the stake of faith.

The devil greeted him with a bright smile, beckoned him into his arms.

_Hush, good God won't save you_

It was when the shattering sound echoed underneath. He obeyed. He had to obey.


	2. and buries them deep

**A/N:** Lyric translation by Defade, with little modification to fit the setting._  
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* * *

_You're early._

The other man grunted. He turned his back at the wide open door, fending himself from the sunlight lapping at his eyes. But the captain knew better, chucked the black coat hung loosely near the threshold at his navigator.

_Dress yourself and get to the dock before noon._ _Your belongings too, bring all with you._

Not bothered to voice a trusty consent, the other stayed faithful to his idle state, waved him off dismissively. Understanding this man was one kind of the impossible, the captain gently smirked. As if everything that had happened were a mirage bubbling from his tiring imagination. He silently evaded curiosity, not prying further into this insubstantial maze of individual intricacy, afraid that one step forth would call for one step lost.

More important to him was the ordeal ahead. Loyalty in name of mutiny, mutiny in name of loyalty, short of a poorly written tragicomedy. The sentence had been set in stone since last night. When sun was at the zenith, he was bound to have it happen.

Once again, venial eloquence excused him from the bad name of an astute sinner. Punishment on the ring leaders was brutally efficacious on whoever witnessed; he couldn't help himself from some ilk of cursing delight in the sight of yoked ships scuttled and sinking solemnly to Kraken's crystal embrace.

Someone was late for the spectacle. He reassured his barren concern that the ships had been emptied beforehand, rendering the chance of any mistake absurd. Soon enough to relieve him of worry, the other showed up, apathetic surprise sweeping across his guise before replaced by a distasteful veil of approval.

At that moment, he realised, the devil beneath was real.

.

They made it out alive to the village of Tacuba. Stained in exhaustion, the conquistador hushed up fickle pride of a survivor amongst survivors to get a glance of their bloodied fiasco. How many subjects had he forgone to escape for his sake, treasured or not? Furious with prayers, the valiant general mounted the horse again in dire search of his property.

Hope availed him nothing. Devil take the hindmost, and this is the ground of bloodshed. Boiling with despair, he brayed with a chant of names.

But one of them would never give him his expected answer.

The revelation tore his rationale apart. He retreated to a trunk nearby, finding hot tears trickle down his cheeks. No place for calm, no time for shame. He gave in to woe and pity without resistance.

Not far from his place, a silhouette stood in the shadow, holding dear a doll in his arms. Both were donned purely in black and red, save for the grudging essence of gold lingering on the man's appearance.

_This stricken village is just like a graveyard, ufufu…_

_Elise, fairytales always come from the graveyard._

The doll snuggled up to the man's loving stroke, her silvery laughter joining their listless stride back into the forest's sombre womb. Left behind on the stage of reality was a man sorely lamenting his loss, twice at once, and cursing the name of God for the first time and perhaps, also the last.

.

He breathlessly fought his way out, or at least that was what he attempted to. Dirtied tang of blood and sweats grew rich in the air, arousing his instinct of last minute. But the man was aware that he had one foot ready for the leap of mortality, no better choice but to waltz with his sword until he lost it.

When he remembered, this was a moonless night. She wasn't there, no longer there. Memory returned him to where they had first met, where he had first saw her smile, when he had first mistaken her as his moonlight.

When he awakened, excruciating pain ate into his senses. The arms of enemies meagrely moved his wounded body to somewhere. A fall, almost there. His hand threw one ill-fated clutch at the closest neck, instinct with a holdover of refusing this fey end.

Ignoring whatever the navigator mumbled in his dead breath, they sent him more boots and clouts to do away with this stubborn man the sooner the better. Time marched on to the crisp arrival of dawn. The due was near.

Before they knew it, darkness had taken him from sight.

.

_On the morning of February 18th, Governor Veláquez arrived in person to rescind the deputation into Mexican coast led by Captain-General Hernan Cortés. Cortés made a decisive appeal against Veláquez's imperious presence, then dispatched himself and the crew to begin his conquest of greater good despite the grave absence of one of his navigators._

_The rest is history._


End file.
